Chapter 4: The Weight of Secrets

THE DEVIL'S

The Weight of Secrets

Eleanor's dreams that night were restless, filled with flickering shadows and the echo of Lucian's voice. When she awoke, the early morning sun was just beginning to pierce through the thick fog that always seemed to linger over Black Hollow. But the light brought no comfort. The memory of the forest, the boy who wasn't real, and the ash that crumbled at her touch refused to fade.

She sat up in bed, her heart heavy with questions. Why had Lucian singled her out? What did he want from her, and why was she the one who had to fight him off? For a moment, she considered telling her father everything. But what could she say that wouldn't make her sound mad?

Pushing the thought aside, she rose and dressed quickly. Work, she told herself. The apothecary would open soon, and the sick and desperate would begin to line up at the door. If nothing else, she could lose herself in the routine of measuring powders and mixing tinctures.

But when she descended the stairs, she found her father already at the counter, his expression grim.

"There's been another death," he said without looking up.

Eleanor froze. "Who?"

"Margaret Whitlock," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow. "They found her this morning, just like the others. No wounds, no sign of illness—just gone."

Her blood ran cold. She thought of Margaret's fearful eyes, her trembling voice as she spoke of shadows and a man with golden eyes. Eleanor had told her to be careful, but it hadn't been enough.

"I should have done something," she whispered, more to herself than to her father.

Edward glanced at her, his frown deepening. "There's nothing you could have done. Whatever this is, it's beyond us. The whole town feels it. People are talking about curses, old stories of the devil's return."

Eleanor felt a surge of guilt. She had seen Lucian. She had spoken to him, felt the weight of his gaze and the promise in his voice. If the devil had truly returned to Black Hollow, she knew it wasn't just an old story anymore—it was her reality.

But she couldn't tell her father that.

"I'll go to the Whitlocks' house," she said abruptly. "They might need help with the arrangements."

Edward opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't wait for his reply. Grabbing her shawl, she stepped out into the cold morning air.

The Whitlocks' house stood at the edge of the market square, its shutters drawn and its front door marked with a wreath of black ribbon. Eleanor knocked softly, half-hoping no one would answer.

After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Margaret's eldest daughter, Clara. The young woman's eyes were red and swollen, and her face was pale with grief.

"Eleanor," she said, her voice hollow. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I came to offer my condolences," Eleanor said gently. "And to see if there's anything I can do to help."

Clara hesitated, then stepped aside to let her in. The house was eerily quiet, the air thick with the scent of candles and the faint metallic tang of sorrow.

"We don't know what happened," Clara said as she led Eleanor to the sitting room. "She was fine last night. Tired, maybe, but she said she was feeling better. And then this morning…" Her voice broke, and she buried her face in her hands.

Eleanor sat beside her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Did she say anything unusual before she went to bed? Anything about what she'd seen or heard?"

Clara shook her head. "Nothing I can remember. She seemed calmer, like she wasn't as afraid anymore. I thought it was a good sign."

Eleanor's stomach churned. Lucian had been here—she was sure of it. Margaret must have seen him again, spoken to him, maybe even made a deal. But what could she have asked for?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound from the hallway. A low creak, like the weight of a footstep on old wood. Eleanor stiffened, her heart racing as she turned toward the noise.

"Clara," she said slowly, "is there anyone else here?"

Clara looked up, her brow furrowed. "Just my brother. Why?"

Before Eleanor could answer, the sitting room door creaked open. A figure stood in the doorway, tall and shrouded in shadow.

Lucian.

Eleanor shot to her feet, placing herself between Clara and the intruder. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

Lucian smiled, his golden eyes gleaming. "Offering my condolences, of course. Poor Margaret. Such a shame."

Clara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Who are you?"

"A friend," Lucian said smoothly. "I was just passing through when I heard the tragic news. I thought I might pay my respects."

"You're not welcome here," Eleanor said, her voice shaking but resolute.

Lucian's smile widened. "Oh, Eleanor. Always so quick to judge. I'm not the enemy you think I am."

"You're not a friend, either," she shot back.

Clara glanced between them, her confusion giving way to fear. "Eleanor, who is this man?"

Eleanor hesitated, unsure of how much to say. "He's… someone you shouldn't trust."

Lucian chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Hurtful, but not entirely unexpected." He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Clara. "Tell me, child, how much would you give to see your mother again?"

Clara's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. "What—what are you talking about?"

"Margaret loved you dearly," Lucian said, his tone almost gentle. "She wouldn't want to leave you like this, with so much grief and unanswered questions. I can bring her back to you. All you have to do is ask."

"No!" Eleanor shouted, grabbing Clara's arm and pulling her back. "Don't listen to him."

Clara stared at Lucian, her face pale. "You can't be serious. This is… this is madness."

"Is it?" Lucian said, tilting his head. "Or is it simply a kindness I'm offering? A second chance. A way to undo what was taken from you."

Eleanor felt her resolve falter. His words were like poison, sinking into the cracks of her own grief and doubt. But she couldn't let him win.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and firm. "Leave this family alone."

Lucian studied her for a long moment, his golden eyes unreadable. Then, with a faint smile, he stepped back.

"As you wish," he said. "For now."

And just like that, he was gone, leaving nothing but the faint scent of smoke and the echo of his words.

When Eleanor returned to the apothecary, her father was waiting for her, his expression a mixture of relief and frustration.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"I went to the Whitlocks'," she said, too tired to argue. "I needed to make sure Clara was all right."

Edward sighed, his shoulders slumping. "You can't save everyone, Eleanor. You have to stop blaming yourself for things you can't control."

She wanted to believe him, to let go of the guilt that weighed her down. But as she climbed the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her, she knew it wasn't that simple.

Lucian was still out there, weaving his web of lies and promises. And Eleanor couldn't shake the feeling that he was just getting started.

To be continued...